


In the Summertime

by CosmicHurricanes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Domesticity, I don't know where this is going and at this point I'm honestly too afraid to ask, Slow Burn, also it's going to be VERY slow burn so good luck with that, also this is my very first fic ever and I know I'm super late to the game so just bear with me, just be warned, might have mentions of rape at some point, might have torture, ok maybe in the sexual way too I haven't decided yet, will have a happy ending (not in the sexual way)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicHurricanes/pseuds/CosmicHurricanes
Summary: Bucky Barnes experiences the wonders of domesticity because I just feel bad for the dude. Also because I wish my OC were me, obviously.Jyn never imagined a crazy life. She is perfectly happy on her little farm, with all the peace and quiet a gal can ask for. That is, until she catches a strange man rummaging through her pantry.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 7





	In the Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I don't know how many of you guys read these, but I just wanted to say that this is my first fic I've ever written, not to mention posted. I know it can be a little wordy and I can be a bit to heavy with the descriptions, but hey I'm trying best here. Also, I can't promise consistent posting, but I will try my best to finish this. Oh also I know that some people have a problem with self-inserts, and while I wish my Oc was me I can promise you she's not. I just hope that she is relatable to you guys, cause I know we've all been there. I hope ya'll enjoy!

It is a hot night here in Massachusetts, and the warm summer breeze carries with it the scent of the Atlantic, the quiet chirping of the crickets, and the slight croaking of the frogs from the nearby pond. The farmhouse stands solid, with the tall grass swaying slightly in the light wind, blowing the curtains in the open windows ever so slightly. 

I breathe in deeply, trying desperately to fall asleep to the soothing sounds of the peaceful landscape, but knowing that it is utterly futile. My insomnia is not due to give up anytime soon, and my alarm clock mocks me with the inevitability that the forward momentum of time is not going to help me in the slightest. Eventually, as the numbers read 3:21 in the morning, I decide lying here is not helping anyone, and I stand from my bed, on a mission for tea and Netflix, hoping that some random documentary can soothe me enough for sleep. 

I walk out of my bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen when I hear it. The unmistakable sound of the pantry opening, ever so quietly, as if the unknown person is trying awfully hard to not be heard.

I stop in my tracks, trying very hard to rationalize what the sound could be. It’s probably just Milo, my loving pitbull, trying to ease his way into that pantry to get to his food. Yeah, that’s probably it. I walk down the rest of the stairs, ready to give Milo a good firm talking to about not getting into his bag of food, when the shape of a man stops dead, arms full of the cans of food I had stocked within.

We both stand and stare at each other for an indeterminable amount of time, and my heart races so fast I thought it would beat straight out of my chest. I quickly realize I had no way to defend myself, and that I was dressed only in a light tank top and silky sleeping shorts. Whereas he’s huge, with clearly defined muscles, and dressed in nondescript jeans and hoodie, with a baseball cap tucked over his hair. 

I freeze, and he acts scarily fast, dropping the cans of food and rushing me, and I don’t even have time to scream before he has his hand clamped over my mouth, the other pushing me up against the wall with a knife held to my throat. I try to scream, but my voice betrays me and all that comes out is a pained whimper.

He looks me right in the eyes, and what I see has me frozen with shock. He is clearly starving, with gaunt cheeks, and large dark circles under his icy blue eyes, as if he hasn’t slept for weeks. He looks at me with the eyes of a killer, of a man who has killed before and would do it again with no hesitation. And I’m entranced, unable to look away.

And he looks at me, when all of the sudden he backs away, the knife clattering to the ground. A look of horror comes over his features, and he is panting, clearly struggling with some internal fight. I just stand against the wall, petrified, waiting for him to do something.

I should’ve run, should’ve tried to call out, call the police, anything, but all I could do is stare as the unknown intruder drops to his knees, his head cradled in his hands, as if he is trying to squeeze out the thoughts. The internal struggle is clear, obviously on the verge of a full blown panic attack. 

And even though he had broken into my house, and was attempting to steal my food, and almost slit my throat, I feel sorry for him. He is clearly starving, and against my better judgement, I push off the wall and kneel in front of him, several feet away, and lift my hands up in a placating sort of way.

“Are you hungry?” I ask. Wow, was that a stupid question, but it was early in the morning and it’s not as if I was ever prepared for this sort of surreal situation. 

His head flips up at the question, his eyes meeting mine, and I could see the despair in there, and the absolute guilt he is warring with, as well as surprise at my question. “W-What?” he finally stammers out.

“I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t going for my TV or anything, just my food. Are you hungry? I can make you something a little better than cold soup,” I offer. I continue to keep my hands where he can see them, so as not to startle him again. 

He appears to be trying to read my face, to see if I’m deceiving him, likely. Upon apparently not finding anything, he slowly nods, and I very carefully stand up, and start making my way into the kitchen.

“Please have a seat at the counter. I won’t take very long. I have some stuff to make sandwiches, is that ok?” I search his face, to make sure he isn’t about to turn back into the killer I had seen before. All I see is wariness, and palpable sadness. 

He stands up, leaning most of his weight against the counter. He takes a long while to answer, and it is clear he is analyzing what I said and is choosing his words very carefully. Finally, he simply says “Why?” whilst sitting on one of my stools, taught as a bowstring, ready to run at a moment's notice. 

I contemplate what he said whilst grabbing the tea kettle to start some water to boil. I make sure to do everything slowly while letting him watch everything I am doing. 

“I’m honestly not quite sure,” I eventually say. I turn around to look him right in the eye, realizing the lights are still off, and that most of his face is still hidden in shadow. “Would it be ok if I turn on the light? It’d be easier for me to talk to you and make the food if I can see.” 

He tenses, but slowly nods. I bob my head in affirmation once, and walked over to turn on one of the kitchen lights, wanting to be able to see what I was doing more clearly but also not wanting to scare off my unexpected visitor. 

“I suppose I don’t like seeing people go hungry. I have plenty of food, and if I can share it with someone who needs it, then that’s a win in my book.” He looks surprised by my answer, and he lifts his head enough that I get a clearer look at him. He has a rather square face, with a jawline that could cut glass, and a few weeks worth of stubble taking over most of the lower half of his face. He has icy blue eyes, and greasy brown hair that is just starting to brush over the tops of his shoulders. He appears like he’d likely been sleeping outside for a while, with dirt smudged across his cheeks and clothes. As though he’d been through a lot. 

“I was going to hurt you,” is all he says, with an ashamed face.

“You didn’t though. I have no doubts that you could if you wanted to, and I get the impression that you don’t. My mother always told me to trust my instincts, and mine are telling me that you didn’t come in here with the intention to hurt me and mine. Am I correct, stranger?”

He thinks that over for a while, so I go back to making him a few sandwiches. He looks as though he hasn’t eaten in a week, so I make four, and grab the biggest cup I had and fill it with water, and place them in front of him. He looks hesitantly at the plate, and with a ‘go ahead’ sort of gesture from me he slowly lifts the sandwich and begins to eat, eyes not leaving me the entire time. I turn to make myself a cup of tea, now that the water is done boiling. 

“Would you like some tea? There’s plenty of hot water here,” I say. He shakes his head, and dives into the sandwiches ravenously, his hunger finally winning over his cautiousness. I sip at the tea silently, watching him watching me, until he finishes his last bite. The water quickly follows, and now there is just silence. He continues to stare at me, until I get quite uncomfortable with all of the staring, especially seeing as how I am dressed in so little. But it wasn’t like I was going to be like ‘oh hey strange man, I’m just gonna go upstairs for a little bit and change, do you promise not to be weird?’ so I just suck it up and lean into the counter, waiting for him to say something. 

“You’re right,” he finally says. I start from the sudden interruption of quiet, and I set my now empty cup on the counter. 

“About what?”

“I was-” he cuts himself off, seeming to be reaching for what he was trying to say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he settles on. 

“Just hungry?” I supply. He nods. 

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” I ask hesitantly, folding my arms across my chest. 

He forcefully stands up, his eyes panicked. “No!” he forces out. 

I put my hands up placatingly, not wanting to set him off further. “Ok, ok,” I say. “No calling anyone. Can I at least know your name? Or at least something to call you by?”

He struggles with that, almost as if he was more so struggling to remember his name, not just if he should tell me. He finally stutters out “Bucky. I’m Bucky,” stating it as if for not only my benefit, but his too. 

“Well Bucky, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Jyn, in case you were wondering,” I go to grab the dishes from in front of him, and place them in the sink. “Oh, before I forget, I have a lot of animals here, so don’t be scared if you see a cat slink out of nowhere, or a dog.” I turn to look at him, and he nods, looking around for any of the aforementioned beings. 

“Well now that that’s all settled, were you wanting to stay the night? It’s pretty late and I wouldn’t want you to go out there all by yourself. I’ve got a guest room, if you would like it.”

He hesitates, the gears in his head turning, analyzing the threats.

“You’ll be safe here, Bucky. As long as you don’t hurt me or mine, I can promise you safety here. I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he simply states his head hung low. “I broke into your home. Your windows- they’re open. I hurt you.” He talks brokenly, his thoughts jumping around, listing off all the things he thinks he’s done wrong. like it’s all the reasons I should hate him and throw him out, and maybe he was right, but I was always bringing in strays.

“Well, I don’t know about whether or not you deserve it, but I sure as hell don’t kick people out on their asses for being hungry. When someone asks for help you help him. That’s what my dad always said,” I state plainly. “Please, I don’t want you to go out there with no food or nothing. At least stay tonight, and tomorrow I’ll make ya some breakfast, and pack you up some food, and then you can get going to wherever you’d like. Deal?”

He looks like he wants to argue, or run, but instead he slowly nods his head and quietly says “Deal.” I nod resolutely and gesture him to follow me, and I lead him to my guest bedroom, which is just a small room with a double bed, a nightstand, and matching dresser. I show him where the bathroom is located, and where he could find shampoo and body wash, and where the extra towels and blankets are stored.

“Please feel free to use whatever you’d like around here. All I ask is that you don’t go into my bedroom,” I point to the door across the hall, “and in return I won’t invade your space. Other than that, we’ll get along just peachy.”

“Also, I don’t want to appear rude, but you look and smell like you haven’t taken a shower in a long time. If you’d like, you can take a shower tonight and I’ll toss your clothes in the laundry, get ‘em all cleaned up, and then they’ll likely be ready by the time you’d like to leave,” I venture hesitantly. He grips the edge of his jacket with a gloved hand, and warily looks at it. He seemed to be calculating the risk. Eventually, he nods.

I bob my head in affirmation, and say “Well if you’d like to just leave your dirty clothes outside the bathroom door, I’ll just leave some clean stuff for you to sleep in in their place. I think I’ve got some old stuff that’ll fit you.” And with that he nods again (not very talkative, are we?), looking weary, and he steps into the bathroom and closes the door.

I let out a breath I scarcely knew I was holding. I feel good about the fact that I had helped someone, but I knew that this man was likely dangerous, and that one misstep could end horribly. I just hope that he’d be ok until morning, and that I would be too.

...

I step away from the bathroom door, turning to go back into my bedroom to grab him a change of clothes. I thought that I might still have a pair of my ex’s old sweatpants that might fit him, and a large t-shirt. The shirt might be a little tight, and the pants a little loose, but it’s better than the same old dirty stuff that had obviously not been washed since he had last been. 

I go back out to the bathroom, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the clothes on the floor, along with the sound of the water running in the background. I switch the clothes, and go to put the dirty laundry into the wash. After that task is finished, I go into the kitchen, and clean up the mess of cans on the floor. I also pick up the dropped, forgotten knife, and consider what to do with it. I didn’t want him to have it, for fear of what he’d do with it, but I also didn’t want him to think I was messing with any of his things when I had just promised him I wouldn’t invade his space. Eventually, I settle on putting it on the kitchen counter next to the other knives, because I figured if he really wanted a knife I couldn’t really do much about it, so I’d at least have them all in the same place. Make it a little harder, ya know?

At this point I hear the water turn off, and so I walk up the stairs to check in on him, to make sure he’s doing ok. I gently rap on the door, and call out to him softly.

“Hey Bucky? I’m going to go to sleep now. If you need me or anything at all, don’t hesitate to knock on my door.” I turn to step away when suddenly the door behind me flies open, leaving Bucky silhouetted with the bathroom light in the background. He looks entirely vulnerable, with his hair wet and sticking to his face, and a towel wrapped around his waist. He reaches out as if to grab my arm, his fingers ghosting over my skin, when he seems to think better of it, and pulls back. 

“I- I’m sorry. Thank you.”

I can’t help it, he looks so absolutely miserable, and so I reach out gently, and ever so lightly grip his hand comfortingly. He looks surprised, and I probably did too, considering the fact that the hand I grabbed was utterly cold, and made of metal. But I don’t let go or shy away, instead giving it a reassuring squeeze and a soft “You’re welcome.” I turn away this time and go into my bedroom and shut the door. My dog Sam, a great big St. Bernard is still sleeping away on the bed all this time. He scarcely opens his eyes as I sit down on the bed, winding down for the night. 

“Lazy butt,” I mutter to him, softly smiling as I gently pat him. I sit around on my phone for a little while, scrolling through instagram while waiting for his clothes to finish in the wash, so I can throw them in the dryer before I really bed down for the night. With that task done, I finally lay down and start really going through the events of the last hour in my head. The harrowed look in the man’s eyes haunts my thoughts, and it’s a long time before I fall asleep, the image of him, the anguish in his eyes as he realizes what he’s doing as he holds that knife to my throat, are the last things I see before I finally succumb to exhaustion, the adrenaline of the night fading from my system.


End file.
